


A Seal Upon Their Hearts (and an Absurdity Upon Their Lives)

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), One Shot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Romance, Sharing a Bed, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley attend a lesbian wedding, pretend to be married lesbians themselves, spend a lot of time sharing a bed, and are very bad at communicating. None of it goes exactly as planned.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2020





	A Seal Upon Their Hearts (and an Absurdity Upon Their Lives)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poorlyformed (cathybites)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/gifts).



> Written for poorlyformed for the GO Holiday Exchange on Dreamwidth! Her prompts were fake marriage, there was only one bed, ineffable wives throughout history, and going on a road trip, ALL OF WHICH I LOVE, so I was thrilled to get her assignment and even more thrilled that I got to write for her!
> 
> Happy belated holidays, friend! 💖 Thanks to AJ/RainingPrince for the beta! This fic was originally posted to the exchange [here](https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/264817.html).

"No."

"It's a historic occasion!" Aziraphale steps in front of Crowley, who's making to leave the bookshop, which simply will not do.

"It's not," Crowley says, one eyebrow cocked. "It's two of your friends—who don't even know me, I might add—getting married. You don't need me for that."

Aziraphale frowns. "It's a lesbian wedding?" she tries.

Crowley shoves her hands in her pockets and tries to push past her again. Aziraphale thwarts her, but only just.

"Look," Aziraphale says desperately, "I really must insist that you accompany me."

A silent battle of wills passes between them, then Crowley throws up her arms. "Okay, I'll bite. Why's that?"

"Well, how to begin, really," Aziraphale starts. "Oh, dear. Well. There may have been a slight miscommunication at some point in my history with the happy couple."

Crowley's other eyebrow shoots up. "Which is?"

"Nothing salacious, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't, actually, but I am now that you've brought it up." Crowley nudges Aziraphale with the point of her bony elbow. "C'mon, angel. Spill. What's your dirty secret?"

The way Crowley purrs those words, as if on instinct, makes Aziraphale flush all over, and then feel silly for responding to Crowley's wiles. They aren't supposed to be playing that game anymore. She tries to pull herself together.

"It's. Well. There's a chance that." Aziraphale stops, takes a breath. The words come out in a rush of exhale anyway. "They think we're married."

Crowley blinks. "Sorry," she says, her tone sliding into something dangerous, "they _what_ now?"

"It's not my fault!" Aziraphale wails. "Or—I suppose it is, rather, but they see us together outside the shop sometimes, and they saw my ring one day, and one question led to another. The next thing I knew, I was being asked how long we'd been married."

She gives Crowley a look that she hopes is reproachful but probably just looks pathetic. "It would have been rude to say we weren't at that point."

" _Rude_?" Crowley squawks. Aziraphale shoots her another pleading look, which has the desired effect. Crowley changes tack. "Well, did they ask where I'd been? Why they hadn't seen me before?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale says, letting go of some of her tension on the exhale. Everything's going to be all right now that Crowley's playing along. "I said you'd been away for work. Which _was_ true in the moment," she adds. "You'd just gotten back from clearing up those ghastly matters in Scotland."

"Hmmmm." Crowley's mouth twists at the memory.

"By the way, we're going back to Scotland." Aziraphale takes a step forward and tries to preemptively herd Crowley back inside the bookshop. "If you agree to go, that is. One of the brides-to-be confided in me that they've rented out a castle for the occasion."

Crowley's expression shifts to a proper scowl. "Hate castles. They're so drafty."

"I know, dear, but you can't deny they've got a certain romantic charm," Aziraphale says. "Especially these days."

"Yes, I can," Crowley counters.

They're getting off track. Neither of them is talking about the _married_ part, which is just fine with Aziraphale. If they could never bring it up again, that would continue to be just fine with her.

She takes another step forward, determined nonetheless. But Crowley doesn't move back, so for a moment, they're very close indeed.

"So," Aziraphale says. She means it to sound bright, decisive, but it comes out soft instead. Crowley really is _very_ close. "Will you go? I'll be very grateful if you do."

Crowley holds her gaze for a long pause—even behind the glasses, Aziraphale can always tell—then, seemingly satisfied with whatever she finds there, lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. "All right! Fine, I'll go with you to Scotland. Been a while since I took a holiday, anyway."

"Wonderful!" Aziraphale clasps her hands together in front of her. "You won't regret it!"

Even as she says it, she's already second-guessing the whole scheme. She didn't expect Crowley to put up so much of a fight, for one. And there are _implications_ to consider—things she wasn't considering when she was focused only on convincing Crowley around to her side of things. Pretending to be married to Crowley around a whole crowd of humans, with all the weight and assumptions they'll assign to that, is high on the list.

"Doubt it," Crowley mutters as she stalks over to the couch, echoing Aziraphale's thoughts. She waves a hand lazily in the air. "Pour us something strong, will you? Whatever you've got is fine."

Aziraphale, feeling that she wholeheartedly agrees, hastens to catch up.

*

As it turns out, Aziraphale learns when conveying their joint acceptance, there's quite a bit of time until the wedding. About a month, in fact. Which of course is no time at all when considering the scale of her and Crowley's lives, but when Aziraphale confronts the idea of pretending to be married to Crowley, it seems a very long time to wait, a series of volatile weeks in which anything could happen.

"So what's our backstory?" Crowley says abruptly, several nights later. They're drinking again, but wine this time, not the harder stuff.

Aziraphale takes a long gulp from her glass and is then forced to expel excess gas through her mouth. "Pardon?"

"Charming." Crowley sits up on the old sofa. She's lost her glasses, and her yellow eyes seem especially intense. "I'm talking about our _cover story_ , angel. For the thing. You know, the thing?"

Aziraphale does, in fact, recall the thing. "The—the wedding. Of course." She thinks for a moment, but no coherent thoughts come to her through her tipsy haze. "Do you know, I hadn't even thought about it?"

She hasn't, either, not really. Not in any concrete way that ends in them actually attending the blessed event as a couple, or at least as a facsimile of one. She hasn't thought about it, because thinking about it brings up the same wild longing in her that made her not dispel the farce in the first place. 

"Well. Think about it." Crowley sounds annoyed now. "What have you told them about us already?"

"Not much," Aziraphale says truthfully. "You know how it is with humans—best to avoid specifics. They know me as Azira, unfortunately, and you're Toni—I hope that was all right?"

Crowley makes a noise of acknowledgment. "Fine. What else?"

"Well, they know I run the bookshop—I told you that." Aziraphale thinks back to all her conversations with Caroline and Jackie. They've mostly taken place when they've run into each other at a cafe or museum. The two women live north of her, in a flat in Fitzrovia, but considering that Aziraphale met them when she happened to pass by an activist rally in their neighborhood, perhaps it's not so strange that they became something like friends to her.

The point is, she really has avoided too many personal details up until now. When pressed, she told them that she and Crowley have known each other for six years and married for one, that Crowley's an independent consultant, and yes, she'd love to bring Crowley around for tea sometime, if only she wasn't so busy with work, you know how it is.

As best as she can with the bit of wine still in her system, she conveys this to Crowley, who's still frowning, but in a more thoughtful way. Crowley's good at schemes; Aziraphale hopes she'll think of one this time.

Crowley turns over the question in her head, then snaps her fingers. Aziraphale looks around for the miracle, but there's no lingering power, just Crowley looking gleeful in her genius. "We should make a list."

"A list? Of what?" She's not sure what Crowley's getting at with all the questions, and she's not sure she wants to know.

"Human things. Nnnnngh… you know." Crowley tilts her head meaningfully and looks not quite at Aziraphale, but somewhere over her shoulder. " _Married_ human things. So we can practice… being married."

Aziraphale gives her a blank stare. Crowley throws up her hands.

"We can't just go in with no plan," Crowley says, exasperated. "Humans are too suspicious now. And besides, this isn't like crashing one of your court weddings back in the day. We're _expected_."

Aziraphale doesn't see why not. They've skated by with quick thinking and quicker miracles under any number of human assumptions up until now; surely this will be no different.

She starts gearing herself up for an argument, then catches Crowley's expression. Something about the glint in her eyes makes Aziraphale relent.

"Fine," she says. "But do sober up—you know I can't cope with the particulars of human expectations while I'm drinking."

*

They decide to make a list. Or, rather, Crowley starts listing things she knows about romance and relationships (some of which is bound to be made up, and some of which she definitely cribbed from Aziraphale's private novel collection), and Aziraphale grabs the nearest bit of scrap paper and the fountain pen from her desk and starts writing.

"Let's see," Aziraphale says when they've gotten a few things down. She taps the end of the pen thoughtfully against her lips. "We've got… spending time together."

"Check. Double check." Crowley spreads one arm out in a sweeping gesture, encompassing the bookshop and the two of them in it, unquestionably in each other's company.

"Being supportive of hobbies and career changes?"

"Career changes is one way to put it," Crowley drawls. Aziraphale has to agree. Being separated from their former sides is something like that, but on a much grander cosmic scale, and yet with all the mundanity the phrase implies. "But, yes, I've been nothing but supportive. Supportive out the wazoo, that's me."

Aziraphale's mouth twists. She thinks about refusing the Arrangement for so many years and about denying her friendship with Crowley when it counted the most. "I'm afraid I haven't always been."

"Hey, now. You were supportive when I bought a black paisley suit in the 1970s." Crowley reaches out as if she wants to touch Aziraphale's arm, then withdraws her hand, clearly thinking better of it. Aziraphale wishes she wouldn't. "You were supportive when I needed someone to help me with that blessing I overdid."

"That's because it was supposed to be _my_ blessing, and you went and nearly started a cult in my name instead." Aziraphale shakes her head as the memory floods back. "But I suppose you have a point. I'll… I'll work on it." She makes a mark next to it on the list.

"There you are," Crowley says, easy and cheerful. "What else did we have?"

Aziraphale glances at the paper in her hand. Next on the list, in her neat copperplate handwriting, are the words _Physical intimacy._ She swallows, suddenly feeling dizzy.

"This was a silly idea," she says instead of answering. She tries to shuffle the scrap paper into a pile of similar papers, but Crowley reaches across and plucks it from her fingers before she can.

It's not like she's a stranger to the concept. It's not like she _and Crowley_ , plural, are unfamiliar with both the theory and practice of being intimate. But it's been a while since their last little lapse, and anyway, it's never been a good idea for them to get into those kinds of habits with each other. Aziraphale ignores the voice in her head reminding her that they don't have to follow the rules anymore.

"It doesn't have to be—y'know." Crowley makes another hand gesture, this time dismissive. "Sex."

It's as if she read Aziraphale's mind, and maybe she did, or maybe Aziraphale's thoughts were just terribly obvious. "What?"

Crowley gives her a look that would be casual, if not for that penetrating golden stare. "Lots of couples don't do it. I really doubt whether we are or not is going to come up in small talk at someone else's wedding."

She shrugs as if she isn't spectacularly missing the point, probably deliberately. Of course they don't have to fall into bed together. Of course no one would know or care one way or the other, and honestly, this isn't how Aziraphale wants to break their self-imposed celibacy. But they ought—if she's going to take Crowley as her wife, even to only play pretend for a weekend, they ought to be comfortable touching each other, at least. And they haven't been as of late.

Aziraphale makes an acknowledging sound and turns over the thoughts in her head, searching for a solution. Something comes to her; it's not the most elegant solution, and she's certainly going to regret it, but, well… maybe she was too quick to dismiss the bed thing.

"What would you say." Aziraphale clears her throat and doesn't look at Crowley.

"Yeah?" Crowley asks, a bit too eagerly.

"I just thought that. Perhaps. It might help our case if you stayed the night." She glances over, then, and judging by Crowley's confused expression, it's coming out all wrong. "Just—you like sleeping, yes? It's very late. So—stay and sleep here."

A series of emotions twists Crowley's face, then she drops them all and shrugs, as if she doesn't care at all. "Sure, yeah, this sofa's comfy enough. I'll just—kip out under the blankets and keep you company. Yeah. Good idea."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says. She tries to make her tone as gentle and careful as she can. They don't have to be careful, but she wants to be. "I do have a bed upstairs. Only if you want to—but it does seem that that's a thing wedded couples tend to share."

Crowley's only answer is a resounding, frantic nod.

*

Once upstairs, once she's confronted with her tiny bedroom and the bed that Crowley will soon be occupying half of, any bravado Aziraphale felt in the moment of inviting Crowley up here completely evaporates.

Aziraphale went up first, presumably to make the room presentable for Crowley but really just to have a moment to herself. Her bed is old but perfectly serviceable—queen-sized, four poster, soft cotton sheets and a fluffy comforter. A small mountain of pillows, because she likes to sit up and read in bed before lying down to rest her eyes. A stack of quilts sit in the chest at the end of the bed; she directs a few of them to lay themselves on the bed, in case Crowley gets cold.

She doesn't bother with tidying the rest of the space. Crowley knows what she's like, so she can very well deal with dust bunnies and stacks of books on the floor. Aziraphale has a very extensive list of books she intends to read, and it just makes sense to keep them up here, well away from the rest of her collection.

She's stalling. She doesn't call out for Crowley. She just stands there, staring at the bed, thinking about the last time she slept in the same one as Crowley and what that meant at the time.

It was a thousand years ago, give or take. They were in Wessex, but it was England by then, and Aziraphale was just coming around to the idea of sharing her workload with Crowley and taking Crowley's in turn. She remembers Crowley kept talking about joining the Vikings for a bit and even started braiding her hair like them. She remembers, because she redid all those intricate braids by hand the next morning after taking Crowley to her bed. Then Crowley kissed her, and all too soon, she was gone on the next ship across the ocean. They didn't see each other for the next fifty years.

There was mead involved, and there was firelight, but that wasn't why she did it. It was just… a thing that happened between them sometimes. Lapses in judgment. Aziraphale rather hopes this won't turn into one—she would hate to be the reason Crowley runs off again.

"Aziraphale?" Footsteps on the stairs, and Crowley's voice carrying up the spiral of them. "Look, if you've changed your mind, feel free to tell me to fuck off home. I'll try very hard not to take it personally."

She says the last while standing in the doorway. It comes out light and teasing, but Aziraphale knows that if she told Crowley to go, she would go. She doesn't do anything of the sort.

"Don't be silly," she says. "There's plenty of room for both of us, and I—" Aziraphale wrestles with herself for a moment, hating that she can't seem to just say what she means. _I want you here. I've always wanted you here, I think._ "Well, like you said. I think we need the practice."

"Right. Practice. For the thing." Crowley stalks into the room, her boots heavy on the wooden floor. She approaches the bed like one might approach an enemy to be vanquished, hands balled into fists at her side. A part of Aziraphale is relieved to see if—she's not alone in her feelings about this. "This side okay?"

It's the right side, both in positioning and correctness. Aziraphale's spent her entire life on Earth with Crowley at her left shoulder, a familiar presence she could rely on with increasing frequency; she really thinks she might have thrown a fit if, in the middle of the strange turn this night has taken, Crowley suddenly decided she wanted to be on Aziraphale's right.

"Of course, why wouldn't it be? Take whichever side you like," she babbles.

"Just checking," Crowley says, shooting her a look. Aziraphale does her best to project calm and ease. Based on the frown etching itself into Crowley's forehead, she's certain she failed. Still, it's convincing enough that Crowley lets the matter drop and starts inspecting Aziraphale's pillows. Most of them are decorative and squashy; Crowley pokes one with obvious and unfounded mistrust. "Somehow knew you'd have a lot of pillows. You ridiculous thing."

The way that last phrase comes out, low and full of affection, makes Aziraphale certain that memories are being dredged up for Crowley, too. She both does, and doesn't, want something to happen between them, and she's not sure how to tell Crowley either way. Aziraphale realizes she's holding her breath and lets it out slowly. Certainly, nothing is going to happen tonight. They're just sleeping; she's being silly.

"They're cozier than you might think," Aziraphale defends, just to have something to say about it. Crowley cocks an eyebrow at her, and she huffs. "Oh, do take your shoes off and get in bed."

Crowley does a bit more than that—she waves a hand upwards over herself and transforms her usual outfit into a black silk pajama set comprised of loose-fitting trousers and a button-down shirt with a deep V that doesn't conceal as much as might be hoped.

At the sight of Crowley's collarbones, Aziraphale curls her fingertips in her trouser pockets and excuses herself behind her changing screen, where she tries to calm herself by carefully folding and hanging her clothes. Her heart is beating too fast. She shrugs on a long tartan nightgown, certain to draw Crowley's ire, over her head. It has _ruffles_ , and not the sexy kind. It's perfect.

Aziraphale wasn't thinking about how Crowley would feel, being left alone while Aziraphale changed practically in front of her, and when she emerges, she definitely isn't expecting the nervous, hopeful look on Crowley's face, nor the way Crowley's eyes sweep over her as if she came out in barely-there lingerie instead.

"What did I say?" Crowley asks, after too many moments of them staring at each other have passed. "Ridiculous."

Aziraphale throws a decorative pillow at her—it just barely misses. "Shut _up_. Honestly, I could still throw you out right now."

But she won't, and they both know it. They pull back the covers and climb into bed on their respective sides, hardly touching at all. Somehow, Aziraphale thinks, this is rather missing the point.

*

Obviously, Aziraphale doesn't read in bed that night. She's not sure she's going to be able to sleep, either, except that she turns the light off, lies down on her side with her eyes closed, and waits, and then she wakes up with a start several hours later to find herself curled around Crowley as if it were the most natural thing she could have done.

Aziraphale takes stock of them. Crowley's lying on her back, nestled in the pillows she insisted on rearranging. Aziraphale's still on her side, but when she went to bed, she had her back to Crowley. Now she's turned the other way, toward Crowley, and one of her arms has draped itself across Crowley's waist.

Her face is practically buried in Crowley's neck; she can feel her heartbeat and the rise and fall of Crowley's steady breathing, and then she can feel the moment when Crowley stirs awake. Aziraphale freezes, every muscle in her body going taut.

"'Ngl?" Aziraphale chances a glance up at Crowley, who's peering at her in the dark. Their eyes lock. "You okay?"

"Perfectly fine. Why?" It occurs to Aziraphale that she ought to extract herself and leave Crowley to her rest, maybe go downstairs and do some reorganizing. She focuses instead on trying to relax, starting at her toes. She doesn't get very far before Crowley turns on her side, all the long lines and whispery silk of her brushing against Aziraphale, and then she has to start all over.

"Y're all… tense." Crowley's face is so close to hers; it wouldn't take much at all to close that gap. There's nothing stopping her. There is everything stopping her. Aziraphale doesn't move. "I can leave, if you want. You were right—we probably don't even need to do this. Not like anyone will know _or_ care."

But the idea of Crowley leaving the cocoon of her bed is even more unbearable than the reality of having her here, and Aziraphale shakes her head. "Please don't go."

"All right, then." Crowley stretches her legs under the covers, then cuddles closer, the stylish layers of her cropped hair spilling across Aziraphale's pillows, the ones she was actually using. "Is this okay?"

Aziraphale finds herself nodding. She rests her face back in the crook of Crowley's neck. Crowley smells just like she always does—spice and smoke and a hint of leather. It's comforting. Slowly, she's able to release the tension and snuggle into Crowley's side.

"There you are," Crowley says, all easy fondness. She yawns; Aziraphale feels the intake of air, then the exhale. "Right. 'M going back to sleep now."

Aziraphale doesn't remember if she answers, or if she just lets the rise and fall of Crowley's chest lull her into slumber. She only knows that she closes her eyes, and when she opens them again with the morning sun streaming weakly through her bedroom window, Crowley's still right there, curled up in bed with her.

*

Weeks pass. Aziraphale acquires a few books at auction, including one with a vintage cake recipe she's been looking for, and blesses a young mother-to-be who comes into the shop, looking for an illustrated book of fairy tales. (Aziraphale sells her the book—it was only a third edition, and some of the drawings weren't to her personal taste.)

Crowley goads a minor politician into exposing her frankly terrible social views on Twitter, which starts a chain reaction flurry of both people rushing to defend her and those calling for her immediate removal from office. There's a hashtag. Aziraphale decides to leave the whole business to her, although she has to admit, it is very good work.

Aziraphale finds a dress in her closet she thinks she can wear again and convinces Crowley that she can't wear black to a wedding, not in this day and age. She suspects Crowley already knows this, but the ensuing argument, which leads into a discussion of historical textiles and reminiscing about the things they used to wear, is quite fun and whiles away an entire evening.

And in the middle of it all, they keep sharing a bed.

Sometimes, they end up at Crowley's flat for the evening, and Crowley casually hints that she really doesn't feel like driving back to Soho, never mind that Crowley loves driving and Aziraphale could have walked. More often, they're at the bookshop, and Aziraphale makes a show of how tired she thinks Crowley looks, even when she doesn't look tired at all.

And after the first night, they stop even pretending that they don't want to snuggle. Or, it goes more like this: they get cozy under the covers, some shy hesitation occurs, and then one of them opens her arms to the other and they curl up together, snug and warm until morning.

There's no kissing, no sex. There is a change in their relationship, though. Namely, there's much more touching than there used to be—her hand in the crook of Crowley's elbow when they walk through the park, and Crowley's hand on her knee to get her attention, and both of them sitting hip to hip or as near to that as they can, whispering scathing remarks about their fellow diners or theater-goers directly into each other's ears instead of passing notes or making pointed gestures.

It all feels quite real and natural, and once she comes around to the idea of Crowley courting her, Aziraphale nearly forgets the reason for the shift. There is the quiet thing between them that she hopes will one day blossom into romance, and there is the wedding they're both going to: two separate cosmic events. That is, until she runs into Caroline at a bakery they both fancy.

"Hey!" Caroline says.

Aziraphale winces at her bright, loud tone but offers her a smile. "Oh, hello. Are you ready for your impending nuptials?"

Caroline rolls her eyes. "I am, but Jackie's driving me absolutely crazy, wanting everything to be perfect. I've just finished checking in with the florist—thought I'd bring her a treat, see if that makes her less nervous." She holds up the paper bag branded with the bakery's logo. "Bet you know all about that with your Toni, though."

"Ah—yes." Aziraphale twists her hands together as the weight of the two events converging crashes in on her. She and Crowley are not married—that's the truth of it. They're hardly even dating, and there's a possibility that anything they've been doing recently has been in service of furthering the deception. "I'm afraid I'm usually on the other side of that."

"Well, I bet she takes good care of you, then," Caroline says, seemingly satisfied with this assessment of them. All Aziraphale can do is nod. Fortunately, Caroline gets a notification on her phone then and swears at it. "Sorry—I'm late, I've got to go. See you at the wedding!"

"Looking forward to it!" Aziraphale calls after her.

Once Caroline's gone, Aziraphale shamelessly shoos off a young man taking up one of the bakery's few tables with his laptop and a printed copy of his screenplay, sits down, and very quietly has a little panic to herself. Of course it's all been for the ruse; of course Crowley wouldn't want to go down that road with her again, not after their whole sordid history. That's why they haven't kissed, or done anything else besides.

Very little of what she's thinking rings true, but that doesn't stop her from thinking it. When she's done having her pity party, Aziraphale buys her eclair and Crowley's chocolate croissant, steels herself, and heads back home to the bookshop.

*

They never do manage to get around to talking about it. Crowley keeps acting like they're courting, so Aziraphale goes along with it and tries to ignore her niggling doubts. All too soon, it's time to leave for Scotland.

"Let's see. You have your dress?" Aziraphale asks.

"'Course," Crowley says, tapping the garment bag. Aziraphale ticks it off her list. "And you've got our gift, right?"

Their gift is a very nice stand mixer, one Aziraphale happens to know Jackie's had her eye on for ages. Crowley insisted it on it being red; Aziraphale had no objections. "Already in the car."

"That's everything, then." Crowley slips her sunglasses on and pushes the shop door open. "Let's go."

The drive, despite taking nearly a full day, is uneventful. Aziraphale re-reads a Heyer novel—she's craving a comfort read just now—until she can no longer believe she doesn't feel nausea from reading in the car, and then they fall into easy conversation and snack on the cucumber sandwiches and shortbread biscuits Aziraphale packed for the drive.

Neither of them touches each other at all, except for one brief, lightning-strike moment when their fingers brush over the tin of biscuits. It's better this way.

Eventually, they arrive at their hotel in Ayrshire. It's nearly dusk. Aziraphale can see the castle-turned-wedding venue in the near distance, tall and imposing over the landscape.

She hasn't been sleeping well. Which is to say, she hasn't slept in bed with Crowley for days, so it's been only the odd kip on her old Chesterfield sofa, which doesn't even help because the blankets smell like Crowley. It seems that, now that her corporation's gotten used to the idea of keeping a more diurnal schedule, it's loath to give up its routine. Aziraphale feels bleary and wavering at the edges, like she's just barely holding herself together. She's looking forward to checking in and having a nice lie-down in the bed they'll share this weekend while they pose as wife and wife.

It's not like she and Crowley are fighting, after all. The issues are all on Aziraphale's end. She'll sort it all out later, like after the wedding, or perhaps in a century or so. She tries very hard not to notice how Crowley looks tired and twitchier than usual.

Unfortunately, there are _two_ beds in their hotel room.

That's... fine, Aziraphale tells herself, even as she swallows around her disappointment. Perfectly fine, even. Maybe even preferable—better by far to stay on her own side and think about all the flimsy reasons they shouldn't rekindle things and how it's all been play-acting, anyway.

(She ignores that she hasn't been acting, and she doesn't _really_ think Crowley has, which leaves no one left in their relationship who's not playing for keeps. Even so. Bad idea either way.)

Crowley took care of their travel arrangements, which consisted solely of making the room reservation and charting a course for the Bentley, so she must have wanted things that way. Aziraphale peeks over at Crowley, who's inspecting the view from their window, but she's only showing her usual level of consternation, nothing out of the ordinary.

They go to dinner at a nearby pub and come straight back—Aziraphale really is quite tired. She finishes the Heyer novel sitting up in bed while Crowley plays with her phone and lounges on her own, separate bed. The double nightstand and bit of carpet between them may as well have been an ocean.

When they turn out the lights, Aziraphale lies down on her side, closes her eyes, and evens out her breathing. She does everything right, except that sleep doesn't come. The mattress is too soft, something that could easily be fixed with a miracle, but Aziraphale doesn't feel like it. She can hear Crowley shifting around on her own bed, restless and sprawling.

This goes on for hours. Aziraphale's about to give up the entire pretense and turn the light back on, but then, at two-thirty-three precisely. Crowley gets up and climbs in bed with her.

"This is stupid," Crowley murmurs, practically in her ear. "I'm sorry, angel."

With Crowley next to her—her scent, her familiar warm presence—Aziraphale lets go of some of her tension before she even knows it's happening. "Sorry for what?"

The double bed is barely big enough for both of them. Crowley's lean, but she's also quite tall, and her long limbs mean that she encroaches on Aziraphale's side without even trying. "I should've done the room like we said, but… it's been days. I didn't think you were interested in sharing anymore."

In the close, quiet dark, facing away from Crowley, Aziraphale feels honesty bubble to the surface instead of deflection. “I haven't been in the best frame of mind about… all of this. Not you. Just the circumstances of it all." She lets that sit for a moment, during which Crowley doesn't say anything, then tentatively asks, "Did _you_ want to? Keep sharing, I mean."

Crowley sighs, a puff of air on the back of Aziraphale's neck. "How could I not?"

It's the most either of them has talked about their feelings since this whole messy business started. They intertwine their bodies without discussing it further: Aziraphale pulled back into Crowley's chest, cradled within the circle of Crowley's strong arms. She's asleep in minutes, lulled by Crowley's steady breathing and the certainty of her protection.

*

The next day, the day of the wedding, dawns bright and clear. Aziraphale greets it with Crowley snoring lightly against her shoulder and thinks about how glad she is that they're here together, even under somewhat false pretenses.

They dress, separately. Crowley leaves her to it and locks herself in the bathroom with her hair products. She emerges a vision in a crepe halter dress—not black, not red, not burgundy, but some unidentifiable shade in the middle of it all. The back of the dress is longer than the front and swishes fetchingly around Crowley's calves.

"Well? Am I up to your standards?" Crowley prompts, making Aziraphale realize she's been too busy staring at Crowley to say anything.

"You must know that you always have been," Aziraphale says, as primly as she can. Then she flushes, wondering if she's being too forward, but Crowley only grins.

"Nice dress, by the way." Crowley nods at her, and Aziraphale blushes more and smooths down her flared skirt and crinoline. She's wearing a pastel blue dress with white polka dots, a ruched bodice, and quite daring straps for sleeves. She had it made sometime in the 1950s and was a mixture of pleased and chagrined to see the silhouette come back in style; she likes being a little off the beaten path when it comes to fashion these days. "Look at that, you're even fashionable."

Aziraphale ignores the jab and collects her handbag and tartan shawl, since the reception is outdoors and she might get cold. Crowley laughs when she notices the tartan. "Ah, there's the angel I know. Shall we?"

"We shall," Aziraphale agrees, leading the way out of their room. "Get ready to 'put your game face on,' as they say."

"No one says that now," Crowley grouses. Then, in a more sincere tone that seems to catch Crowley off guard as much as it does Aziraphale, she adds, "But—yeah. You don't have to worry. We'll be _fine_."

Before they leave, Crowley gets them switched to a room with a single, king-sized bed. Aziraphale watches it happen and doesn't let herself question it at all.

*

The ceremony, which takes place in a little stone chapel on the castle grounds, is beautiful. Caroline and Jackie are radiant in their lace dress and silk pantsuit, respectively, and the clear adoration they feel for each other fills the room. Aziraphale dabs at her eyes when they say their vows and exchange rings, and then again when they seal their covenant with a kiss. She glances over at Crowley, who looks especially stoic in the way that means she's trying to hide how affected she is.

Tentatively, Aziraphale crosses the inch or so between them and reaches for Crowley's hand. To her surprise, Crowley takes it and squeezes back.

The reception, however, is a whole other story. They're expected to _mingle_ , after all. Aziraphale hates mingling.

Still, she at least recognizes the faces of some of the people here, so she supposes it's up to her. They make light conversation with some of the other guests—it's easier, Aziraphale's always found, if she turns the conversation back on the people she's talking to than try to remember what won't sound too anachronistic this decade.

Their marriage doesn't come up at all. There was probably no need for any of the worry or deception; people just take it at face value that she and Crowley are a couple. And then she's not sure how to feel about _that_ , since fear of their sides finding out is no longer an accurate response. Excitement, maybe? Dread? A little of both? Have people always assumed that she and Crowley are together and it's only now that it's being pointed out to them?

The feeling settles in her stomach, fluttering there, as she and Crowley collect plates of nibbles from the buffet and find seats at one of the long tables set out for the reception. They're reproductions, but beautiful woodworking all the same; Aziraphale runs her hand over the top of it and admires the craftsmanship to distract herself.

"You doing okay?" Crowley asks. Actually, she murmurs it in Aziraphale's ear, and Aziraphale feels every vibration on the delicate skin there. She shivers and wraps her shawl around herself—Crowley helps when she manages to get it twisted in back.

"Perfectly. It's a beautiful wedding." Aziraphale doesn't look at Crowley, but she does look up. Her eyes focus on the fairy lights strung on the castle wall in the outdoor alcove they're in. "I'm glad we came."

Crowley coughs. "Yeah, I'm—yeah. Just terribly happy we could be here for the occasion."

There's something odd in her tone Aziraphale sort of wants to tease out, but before she can say anything, they're interrupted by a few of Caroline and Jackie's friends taking seats across from them. One of them is a bridesmaid, and she narrows her eyes at them.

"And just who are you two?" she asks. "Don't think I've seen you around before."

Aziraphale extends her hand. "Azira," she says. "I'm a friend of the couple. Well, an acquaintance, if we're being honest, but I _am_ delighted to be here." She gestures at Crowley. "This is Toni, my…."

Now that the moment is here, she can't bring herself to say it. Fortunately, Crowley is there to save her.

"I'm her ex-girlfriend," Crowley says with an impertinent grin.

Aziraphale elbows her, just lightly. "Stop that, you fiend." To the humans, she says, "She's my—my wife."

Such a simple word, and yet so heavy in context. It would be heavy in any context concerning Crowley, but especially when she has Crowley next to her, real and solid, and when, from where they're sitting, she can see the freshly married couple they're meant to be celebrating. She watches Caroline feed Jackie a mini quiche and thinks about crepes, about chocolates, about missed opportunities and all the chances they didn't take. About how that could have been them if she had let things blossom even once when they slipped up and fell into each other's arms.

She stands up.

"Angel?" Crowley asks.

"Lovely to meet you all, but I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me for a moment," she says to the humans, who offer her concerned looks but, thankfully, don't show any sign of getting up. "Cr—Toni. Could you come with me, please?"

Crowley continues making a quizzical face but heaves herself up off her chair and follows, hips swaying. Aziraphale leads them around the corner of the castle, still near the reception but out of sight and earshot of everyone attending it.

"What's up?" Crowley leans against the wall and gives her a knowing look. "You wanna leave?"

"Of course not, we haven't even had cake yet. Don't distract me." Aziraphale takes a deep breath and looks at Crowley. "My dear, will you take off your glasses? It's really rather important."

With a glance around to make sure they're truly alone, Crowley slips off her sunglasses. Her dress doesn't have pockets, so she just clenches them tightly in one hand, watching Aziraphale. "I'm listening."

Aziraphale looks her over—red curls escaping from her updo, features sharp in relief under the setting sun, beautiful—and considers what to say, how to explain it. When one has spent multiple lifetimes pushing something away, does it ever get easier to finally let it in?

She notices the gooseflesh appearing on Crowley's bare arms, takes off her shawl, and wordlessly hands it over to Crowley, who grumbles but wraps it around herself. That's a start, at least.

"Crowley," she says. "My dear. You surely know how I—how I feel. About you."

Crowley's eyes widen, and she gestures at Aziraphale to continue. Aziraphale presses on.

"How I've _always_ felt. Well. Maybe not always. There were a few rocky centuries at the start, as I'm sure you remember—but certainly, things were always _leading_ this way—what I mean to say is—"

In the middle of whatever confusing jumble that was, her gaze drifted away from Crowley and onto the nearby moor; she pulls her attention back and is surprised to see tears filling Crowley's eyes.

"Oh, no. Don't cry, my dear. My darling." Aziraphale steps forward and wipes at the corners of Crowley's eyes. "I'm happy. I'm happy if you're happy." She steps back and squints at Crowley. " _Are_ you happy?"

Crowley sniffles and nods. "Say the rest. Of what you were trying to get out just now."

And it is now so simple to say, so easy to feel, that the words come out of her without any effort at all.

"I'm in love with you," Aziraphale says. "I'm sorry I took so long to tell you."

The tears spill down Crowley's cheeks, and she swipes them away with an impatient hand. "Funny story." Her throat is all choked up. "I'm in love with _you_. Since the beginning, I have been."

There's a beat where they just look at each other, shaky smiles on their faces, and then Crowley growls, "Aziraphale, if you don't kiss me right now—"

"Oh, fine," Aziraphale says, and she kisses Crowley.

It's not like any kisses they've shared before. It's deep, and all-consuming, and yet sweet at the same time, the promise of a new beginning. Aziraphale breaks the kiss and opens her eyes.

"There's one more thing," she says, her lips still brushing Crowley's mouth.

"Oh?" Crowley murmurs. Her lips move against Aziraphale's, seeking; Aziraphale indulges them both in another kiss and then moves back so she can see Crowley properly.

"Yes." Aziraphale fiddles with her pinkie ring, the one that started the whole trouble—who ever heard of wearing one's wedding ring on the pinkie, anyway? Aziraphale has no idea—and decides she's going to go through with it. She takes off her ring and curls her fingers around it. "Goodness. Well. There are so many things I could say, really. I hope you'll forgive me for not having a speech prepared."

"Angel," Crowley says, voice alarmed. Aziraphale ignores her.

"I suppose, in part, it comes down to this," she continues. "I truly think 'girlfriend' or 'partner' are inadequate terms for what I'd like us to mean to each other. We _are_ partners, but we have been for some time, haven't we?"

Crowley nods but doesn't interrupt. She looks like she might start crying again. Aziraphale thinks she might end up joining her in that, public dignity be damned.

"What I mean is—Crowley." Here it comes, the question she should have asked all along, the question she could never dare ask until now. They're already playing the part; she might as well make it official. "Will you be my wife? Will you marry me? Not for playing pretend. For real, this time."

Aziraphale watches Crowley's face crumble into happy, ugly tears, and she loves her, and loves her, and loves her.

"We're at someone else's _wedding_." Crowley sounds like she wants to be scandalized but can't quite get there, owing to how overwhelmed she is. "You're aware of how this is in bad taste."

Aziraphale smiles hopefully and feels tears prick at her eyes, too. "Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes, obviously." Crowley crowds in close and rains kisses all over Aziraphale's face, like she can't bear to stop. Somewhere in all of that, Aziraphale slides her ring onto Crowley's fourth finger, where it fits perfectly.

*

They return to the reception. Now that they're not alone anymore, Aziraphale's aware of how they must look to the people around them, smiling and blushing uncontrollably at each other as they are. She doesn't care a whit, just watches her friends cut the cake together and feed each other bites, arms interlocked, and smiles gratefully at Crowley when she goes on a cake-fetching mission for both of them. Crowley's still wearing her shawl, draped fashionably over her forearms.

"How long _have_ you been married, anyway?" One of the other guests, a woman with short hair and a studded leather jacket who's had a bit too much to drink, leans over the table into Aziraphale's space. Aziraphale recoils instinctively. "You act like newlyweds."

"Oh, you know," Aziraphale hedges. "It's funny, sometimes I feel as if we always have been—"

"—And sometimes it's like almost no time at all has passed, actually." Crowley saves her by swooping back into her seat and depositing two plates and glasses onto the table. "Here's your cake, angel. Brought you more champagne, too."

"Thank you, dear." The cake, a traditional fruitcake, is wonderful, although fruitcake's not often one of Aziraphale's favorites. But what makes it even better is the half-lidded, adoring look on Crowley's face as she watches Aziraphale eat, sliding absent bites of her own between lips still slightly swollen from Aziraphale's kisses. Discreetly, Aziraphale crosses her legs under the table. Crowley grins.

Aziraphale turns back to the person still watching them from across the table and says—rather boldly, she thinks, given the effort they've put into maintaining their deception so far—"Come to think of it, I really don't think our relationship is of anyone's concern."

The woman huffs and moves away, seeking someone else to bother, and Aziraphale looks back at Crowley. "I do believe there's a bit of dancing about to start. Shall we?"

There isn't, but there is music from the string quartet playing, and Aziraphale decides that's good enough. The two of them take to the bit of floor slightly away from the tables and try not to step on each other's toes as they twirl each other around. Eventually, some of the other couples join in; Aziraphale even finds herself cut in with briefly by one of the children present, a small girl in a party dress who wants to dance with Crowley.

"I see I've got competition," Aziraphale murmurs when she gets her fiancee back. And how strange that is, to think of her that way, after all the time she's spent avoiding calling Crowley anything at all.

"Never," Crowley says, and she kisses Aziraphale full on the mouth, right there on the makeshift dance floor. Aziraphale doesn't even think about stopping her.

Soon after, the reception winds down and people start leaving. The two of them go to offer their congratulations and goodbyes to Caroline and Jackie, who grin and nudge each other in a way that feels almost uncomfortably familiar.

"I rather think we ought to be the ones congratulating _you_ ," Jackie says with a wink. "Don't think I didn't notice you two slipping away."

Aziraphale flushes but wraps her arm around Crowley's waist. "Yes, well, it has been quite a day. I do apologize for any disruptions?"

Jackie waves her off. "Oh, please, don't worry about a thing. It's an exciting time for all of us, right?" She winks again, and Aziraphale finds she has to agree.

They take their leave after a few more minutes of pleasantries. Aziraphale's other gift to the couple is a blessing, one of protection and security, all bound together with a wish for them to love each other for the rest of their lives; she lays it on them with a touch to each of their hands that she tries to pass off as natural effusiveness.

As they leave, Aziraphale hears Caroline whisper to Jackie, "I knew they weren't really married!"

Crowley, still wrapped up in Aziraphale's arm, gives her a rueful look over her glasses. "Well, I suppose that's our cover well and truly blown. We may as well pack it in and go back to the hotel, eh?"

"We were leaving already," Aziraphale points out, already leading Crowley away from the castle and back to the car. Together, they cast one last look back at its high stone walls, then at the little spot where they finally promised to be on the same side, for now and always.

There ought to be a memorial, Aziraphale thinks. She snags Crowley's mobile out of thin air and takes a picture of the spot to remember it by, so they can come back here someday.

*

Crowley drives them back to the hotel. It's not very far away, but with every kilometer, Aziraphale finds it more and more difficult to keep her hands off her. They sneak glances at each other all the way back, and by the time they get there, Crowley's practically sprinting out of the car and around to Aziraphale's side, where Aziraphale's already gotten out.

Aziraphale finds herself being pressed against the Bentley's closed door, bracketed by Crowley's long limbs. They trade long, lush kisses there until the chill of the evening wind gets to be too much.

"Let's go inside," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale nods.

One second, they're outside in the car park, and the next, they're in the room they got switched to, with the king-sized bed. Crowley's aim was a little off, so they stumble over the end of the bed and fall onto it together. They giggle together at the mishap but soon go back to their languorous kisses, one leading into another without stopping, their lips dragging and pressing against each other's.

"How long's it been?" Crowley, who wound up on top, runs her fingers through Aziraphale's curls. "I missed you."

The very last time they had sex, until now, it was on the bookshop sofa in the middle of the Blitz, and Crowley didn't stay, and Aziraphale was scared and hopelessly in love. They never even made it upstairs to her bed. She doesn't want to remember that feeling now, when she doesn't have to be scared anymore.

"Too long," she says instead of answering. "I missed you, too." Never mind that they've been sleeping curled up together for all these weeks—it hasn't been this, it hasn't been shared kisses and bare skin and the two of them showing their love for each other in this intimate way, without fear, without judgment.

Aziraphale finds the hidden zipper of Crowley's dress and tugs it down. Crowley's wearing a bra and panties for once in her life—black lace, of course—and Aziraphale takes those off, too, only pausing to suck Crowley's nipples through her bra as she undoes the hooks in back. Crowley lets out a gasp and fumbles at Aziraphale's clothes.

"Let me," Crowley says. Aziraphale squirms under her touch as Crowley unzips her dress and pulls it over her head, then gets the rest of her kit off, her fingertips dragging over Aziraphale's skin as much as possible.

Once they're both naked, Aziraphale waves their discarded clothing away to kindly take care of putting itself in the closet and turns her attention to Crowley. Her fiancee, soon to be her _wife_. Presented with both the force of Crowley's love and the long expanse of her bare skin, Aziraphale feels spoiled for choice; she doesn't know what she wants to do first and just presses her face into the soft skin of Crowley's chest, quite overcome.

Crowley holds her tight, kissing her hair and stroking down Aziraphale's arms and sides. "We don't have to do anything, you know. This is—yeah, wow. It's enough." She's quiet for a moment. "Knowing you love me is enough. Always has been."

That gets Aziraphale to lift her head. She leans up to capture Crowley's lips and asks seriously, "Do you want to stop?"

"Not on your life," Crowley says with a smile that's helpless and unpracticed, a smile she only uses with Aziraphale when they're alone like this.

"And I certainly don't want to. Just needed a moment." Aziraphale moves down to give Crowley's breasts the attention they deserve—wet, sucking kisses, on her nipples and pressed to the slight curve of the undersides, where she's the most sensitive. Above her, Crowley sighs and squirms under her touch, and then squeaks in surprise when Aziraphale reverses their positions. "I'd rather like to put my mouth on your quim, if you're amenable."

"Yessss. More than." Crowley tilts her hips up, inviting, and Aziraphale feels long legs and elegant feet wrapping around her back. "Please, angel."

When Aziraphale parts Crowley's lips and slides an experimental finger in, she's not surprised at all to find her so wet; Crowley's always been so lovely and responsive in bed, yet another way in which they enjoy compatibility. She bends down and applies her mouth as if she's kissing Crowley, letting Crowley's sweetness explode on her tongue, and oh, she really has missed this, all of it.

She keeps working Crowley over—teasing at her clit, sliding her tongue into Crowley's entrance, humming a little just to feel Crowley jerk underneath her. Crowley swears and pants and moans, and chants Aziraphale's name, until Aziraphale finds the one perfect rhythm that makes Crowley's whole body tense up and shake apart as she comes hard, clenching around Aziraphale's tongue.

Feeling a bit smug and satisfied herself, Aziraphale brings her down slowly, with soft kisses between Crowley's legs and on her inner thighs until Crowley pushes her away.

"Fuck, I love you," Crowley says, her smile even looser than before, lazy and crooked with her orgasm. "C'mere."

Aziraphale doesn't think she'll need much, and she's right; Crowley pulls her up to straddle Crowley's thigh and spurs her on with soft, filthy words of encouragement to take her pleasure there, just like she did the first time they ever did this, back in Eden. Crowley reaches between them and rubs Aziraphale's clit while giving her the most enamored look Aziraphale's ever seen, two bright points of pleasure in counterpoint with her rocking against Crowley's thigh, and then she's squeezing her thighs together and coming, just like that.

She lets herself be lifted up and hauled in Crowley's arms then, their bodies tangling and overlapping until Aziraphale is completely enfolded, and Crowley likewise. Crowley plays with the ring on her finger.

"I panicked," Aziraphale admits. Crowley gives her a sharp look, so Aziraphale hastens to explain. "Not like that, just—I meant to someday have a speech and a ring planned, and, well, an actual plan, but—" She kisses Crowley's ring finger. "Just sort of happened this way. I'll get you your own ring, though, once we're back in London."

"I guess I'll have to start bringing you to more weddings under dubious pretenses." Crowley lets out a huff of a laugh at her own joke, then kisses Aziraphale in a quick press of lips. "D'you mind if I keep wearing yours? Just until then."

"Of course you can." This time, it's Aziraphale who crosses the scant distance between them. "It looks good on you. Like a little piece of me."

Crowley's grin turns even more lopsided. "Like to have more than that of you on me."

"Oh, _you_ ," Aziraphale says, and they're kissing again, and Crowley is pushing her onto her back, and between one thing and another, they don't get a wink of sleep the entire night.

*

"Have you considered," Crowley says a few weeks later, "that we might actually already be married?"

They're lounging on the sofa together, with Crowley tucked under Aziraphale's arm and her legs kicked over the arm of the sofa. Crowley's still wearing her ring.

Aziraphale frowns and swirls the wine around in her glass. "How do you figure?"

They did go to a fair few harvest festivals back in the day, but she's sure she would recall a fertility rite or a ceremony in which they promised themselves to each other.

"Don't you remember?" Crowley asks. Aziraphale shakes her head. "In 1020, almost exactly to the day, I came up to you in a village square and said we needed to talk."

Aziraphale does remember now; she can almost feel the mist of the day, the weight of the dust on her traveling cloak. "And soon after, we formed our little arrangement."

Crowley nudges her in the side. "And then you said you had to go because the assignments we both had were two villages over and you wanted to get an early start, but you didn't, not until you fucked me silly in the attic room of that little inn. Remember that?"

Her voice is low and purring now. Aziraphale remembers that part most of all, although the sweetness of the memory is tinged with the bittersweetness of her departure. She remembers wanting to stay in that bed with Crowley the next morning; she remembers wanting to haul Crowley up onto her horse and take her along instead of leaving her standing in the village, waving goodbye.

She was so careful back then, and none of her caution even wound up mattering at all.

"I've never forgotten," Aziraphale says honestly. She banishes her wine glass to the desk and presses her lips to Crowley's hair, both in apology and gratitude. "So by your logic, we've already committed ourselves to each other and consummated that commitment… a thousand years ago?"

"Sure, yeah." Crowley shrugs. "Just an idle thought, really. No big whoop."

But Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough to know it actually means a great deal to her, even just to have this conversation, and she thinks she knows just what to say.

"In that case, it's practically our anniversary." She takes the glass from Crowley's hand, where it's dangling precariously anyway, and nudges her to get up. "And we do have an upstairs bedroom—it's almost an attic. I wouldn't be opposed to a… repeat performance."

"Well, if you insist." Crowley leaps up and pulls her towards the spiral staircase. "Just as long as you don't leave this time. I wanted to get you back in the morning. Back then, I mean."

At the base of the staircase, Aziraphale pulls her into a kiss. In it, she tries to convey how sorry she is about everything they've missed out on, how much she wants to openly commit to Crowley now and never leave her behind again. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Crowley smiles at her. "Good."

And together, hand in hand, they walk up the stairs and into their continued future together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr as [@waterofthemoon](https://waterofthemoon.tumblr.com).


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